


Stand Before the Cold

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Series: The Silver Collar [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Abused Dean Winchester, Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Case Fic, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Non-Sexual Slavery, POV Outsider, Physical Abuse, Slave Dean Winchester, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24592219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: Time stamp for The Silver Collar series: Dean's first sponsor joins a group of hunters gathered for a big case.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Original Character(s)
Series: The Silver Collar [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1139369
Comments: 53
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place before Dean meets the Winchesters, and might contains spoilers for ["Ends of the Earth, Edge of Heaven"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066151). I recommend reading the main work first to fully enjoy both stories!
> 
> As with the rest of this series, the story contains non-consensual slavery, violence and language. 
> 
> Script Doctor, again, supplied great feedback and dialogue ideas. [happy_to_be_here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/happy_to_be_here), [ToscaRossetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToscaRossetti/pseuds/ToscaRossetti) and [CrazedPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazedPanda) beta'ed the story with care and wisdom. Thank you all!

There were two cars outside when Chris pulled up to the cabin. He wasn't the first to arrive at the party, but also not the last, which suited him just fine. He parked his Escalade beside the other cars and climbed out, pausing for a minute to breathe in the fresh afternoon air, before he walked up the porch steps.

He rapped on the door as he was told on the phone: three brisk knocks, pause, three more, pause, and one. Steps shuffled to the door, locks clicked, and at last it was opened.

David French grinned at him. "Hey, Chris, good to see ya." Regardless of his broad smile, David didn't move out of the way; instead, he held out a silver flask.

"Good to see you too," Chris took a swig of holy water and handed the flask back. David's smile widened and he stepped back, allowing Chris into the cabin.

Aurora Howland raised her head to look at Chris as he walked in. Despite her Disney-princess name, there was nothing delicate or even overly feminine about her – a sinewy woman with weather-beaten skin and a constant frown. But she was a fine hunter, and Chris nodded a greeting at her, pleased David had her enlisted into the little group he assembled for this case.

"Want a beer?" David was already heading to the kitchen.

"Sure," Chris put his duffel bag down in the corner. He would need all his senses intact for the hunt tomorrow, but today he could afford to unwind.

David came over to hand Chris a bottle, his smile as constant as Aurora's frown. He prided himself on his multi-racial heritage, from Native-American to Barbadian to Swedish to Siberian Chukchi; it made him more relatable when he grouped hunters together for big jobs, which was his specialty.

"So who else is coming?" Chris uncapped the beer and took a pull.

"Randy just let me know he was ditching us, and I couldn't get anybody else on such short notice. But we still have Patrick Rhett, and-" he hesitated for a moment. "Jonah Brody."

Chris's hand froze with the bottle halfway to his lips.

David put a hand on Chris's shoulder, leaning a bit closer. "You're not gonna bail on me too, are you, Chris? Not you of all people. I probably should've talked to you about it first, even without… you know. I'm sorry I didn't. But we're getting two for the price of one here, and a _good_ two at that. And anyway, it's the cause that counts, right? All hands on deck and so on."

Chris glanced down at his beer, raised it and sipped. "Right." David smiled and clapped him on the back.

"Good man. Sit down, take the load off. Patrick's bringing dinner."

Chris sat down on one of the couches in the main room. Aurora went back to doing whatever she was doing by the dining table – it looked like she was sorting a heap of tattered notes – and David went back to putting boxes and dishes in and out of the kitchen cabinets with seemingly no coherent goal, but with plenty of commotion.

Chris watched him without really seeing anything as he continued nursing his beer. Jonah Brody. He didn't expect that, not so soon. It had been, what, two weeks? Three at the most? Brody was a loner to begin with, it seemed unlikely he would join a hunting party under normal circumstances, and even less likely under _these_ circumstances. Despite David's confidence and cheerful faith in the success of their mission, Chris had half a mind to get up, put the bottle down, and tell David this wasn't going to work, he was sorry, he really was, but he couldn't do it.

But he stayed seated. He didn't even know if it was the promise he had given David, his obligation as a hunter to wipe out as much evil as he could, or plain sick curiosity. Maybe all three. Either way, he slowly drained the cold beer as Aurora's notes rustled and David's dishes clattered, and tried not to think about it. It was just a job. He was going to be gone the moment it was done; gone without looking back.

He must have been lost in thought, because he didn't hear the approaching car outside. Only when David leaned to look out the window over the sink did he notice the faint sound of an engine drifting through the walls.

"Brody's here," David said, and Chris's skin broke out in goosebumps. Suddenly he couldn't sit still anymore. He saw he had a tiny bit of liquid left in his bottle, emptied it in one swallow and got to his feet as if bringing the bottle back to the kitchen was the only thing on his mind.

He walked slowly, reaching the counter at about the same time David made it to the front door and waited for the right knock. As David opened the door, it blocked Chris's view, and he carefully put the bottle in the bin, waiting for the newcomers to step inside.

At last David moved aside to let them through. Brody walked in first – a man in his fifties, with salt and pepper hair and beard and bushy eyebrows over sharp, dark eyes. He looked older than the last time Chris had seen him, which was no big surprise; it had been twenty years.

Brody looked around, nodded his head at Aurora, who returned the gesture, and then stared directly at Chris.

Chris stared back. Should he say something? What? Did Brody recognize him? Of course he did, and even if he didn't, he probably knew David had Chris on board; he was the type to ask for this kind of information in advance.

"Easton," Brody said with a tilt of his head. The tone was neutral, just a polite greeting.

Chris absently noted he was holding his breath and let it out. "Brody."

Brody moved on inside, and at last Chris set his eyes on the collared one.

Or rather, on his back for now – Brody directed him away from Chris, to the other side of the main room, opposite the kitchen. All Chris could see was an oversized coat that looked well-worn, and a head of spiky blond hair.

The collared one put down the three large duffels he was carrying and turned around, giving the room a glance so swift Chris wasn't sure he even saw it, before fixing his eyes on Brody – probably waiting for instructions. Both Aurora and David were looking at the collared one, so Chris allowed himself to do the same. David had been at the court martial, maybe Aurora had been too, Chris didn't know. But for him it was the first time seeing the kid.

Chris knew the boy's name was Dean, and that he was sixteen. He knew a whole lot more about the trial, had even driven to Maine at the time it took place; but before he entered the Swanville town limits, he got cold feet, turned his car and crashed at some dingy motel in Waldo. From there he followed the case through the grapevine, and when it was over, he got back in his car and hightailed it out of there without so much as a glance at the road leading to Swanville.

It wasn't like he had been the only one keeping close tabs on the trial; practically every hunter was. But it had been different for him.

He brushed the memories away and focused on the boy. He was good-looking – tall for his age, with bright green eyes and freckles lightly dusting his pale skin, like cinnamon on cream. Looking at him, it was almost impossible to imagine him as a monster.

But hunters knew better than most people about monsters.

"I'm gonna have him start on the machetes," Brody said. "French, you said you got an arsenal ready."

"Yeah, I have a stock of them for everybody. Lemme get that for you."

David went out the back door. He was gone for maybe five minutes or so, but Chris was sure they seemed like hours to the boy who was standing there with Aurora and Chris openly staring at him. Chris should have looked away but he couldn't quite manage that. And the collared one was probably already used to being stared at, anyway, wasn't he?

_Nobody gets used to being stared at._

"Here we go," David came back, cheerful as ever, carrying a large wooden case with the machetes' handles jutting over its rim. Brody moved to look into the crate, and then lifted one machete out for a better look.

"You get brand new ones?"

"I know hunters get attached to their blades, but this is prime steel, finest quality you'll ever see. Got a dreamy deal on them, _and_ y'all are welcome to keep them once we're done."

Brody turned the machete before his eyes, and the light streamed on the clean blade. It _did_ look very nice, better than the one Chris had in his trunk. Brody nodded and put the machete back in the crate, took it from David's hands and hauled it to where the collared one was standing.

Chris realized that brand new machetes meant factory blades – too dull to cut through paper, let alone flesh and bone. Getting a blade like this razor-sharp would take up to twenty minutes of work apiece. Chris had passed evenings like this, before a hunt, sitting with another hunter or two, talking and laughing, each of them working on their blade and their drink simultaneously.

It was obviously not what was going to happen tonight – Brody had already set the case down by the collared one; Dean would be spending the entire evening filing and stropping. But anyway, it wasn't as if he would have been invited to sit with the rest of them, to talk and laugh as if he was just another one of their temporary gang.

He was there to work, to help on the hunt with whatever his sponsor wanted. That was all. And he was damn lucky he was allowed this much; it was either that or a bullet to the back of his head.

A chill so violent rolled down Chris's spine, his entire body shivered.

Brody had found a little stool somewhere – maybe behind one of the couches or the other side of the large wood box by the fireplace. He placed the stool by the wall in the back of the room, where the bags had been placed. Dean took a seat, looking up at Brody and listening to the instructions the hunter was giving him in a low voice that Chris wasn't able to hear clearly, because David went back to whatever he had been doing with the dishes in the kitchen. Dean nodded and said something in the same low voice, then bent to unzip one of the duffels and rummage inside it.

Brody returned to the kitchen, and nodded at David, who offered him a beer. He took a long pull, let out a breath and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"We need to go over the game plan," he said.

"Yeah, we will," David replied. "As soon as Patrick gets here with the food. I don't believe in doing those things on an empty stomach."

Brody took another sip from his bottle. "When's he gonna be here?"

David glanced at his watch. "Should be any minute now. Why don't you take a seat? Chris, another beer?"

Chris accepted the bottle and uncapped it as the grating noise of a metal file on a steel blade started to sound from Dean's corner.

"We're only waiting on Rhett?" Brody asked. "Didn't you say you have four other hunters on board?"

"Yeah, Randy LaShae couldn't make it," said David. "But it shouldn't be a problem. I mean, the five of us can handle it, and you have the boy, too."

Brody let out an unintelligible grunt, and David beamed as if the older hunter showered him with praise.

They drifted into the main room to perch on the couches and nurse their beers – all beside Aurora, who went on shuffling her notes – and David engaged them in small talk about other hunters they knew, new options for credit scams, and obscure bits of lore that might one day come in handy. None of them talked of the collared one, who was sitting a few feet from them, moving the file over the machete's blade in long, even strokes.

Chris didn't even feel that any time had passed before there was a knock on the door - three, pause, three more, pause, and one.

"Must be Patrick," David said, rising from his seat.

As soon as he was up and away, both Chris and Brody fell silent. Chris's bottle was two-thirds empty, it wasn't time yet to get up for another, so he stayed put and watched David letting Patrick Rhett in. The newcomer was carrying three pizza boxes, and greeted the others with a wide smile. He was a handsome guy in his early thirties, with warm honey-colored eyes, and teeth that glistened white against his smooth chestnut skin as he smiled.

"Got all kinds of toppings, I didn't know what you'd like," he said and put the boxes on the table. "That's it? Is there anybody else coming?"

"No, that's the lot of us," David said. "You know Aurora, don't you?"

"I've had the pleasure," Patrick bestowed her with a charming grin and held out his hand. Aurora, amazingly, let go of her papers to shake with him, a faint smile curving the corners of her thin lips.

"Have you met Jonah and Chris?" David steered Patrick toward the main room. Chris and Brody stood up to shake hands with him.

"How are ya, Easton?" Patrick said.

Chris had met Patrick some years back, and liked him fine; no surprise there, Patrick was easy-going and friendly. "I'm good, man. Great to have you with us."

"Glad to be here," Patrick turned to Brody. "Jonah, is it?"

"Jonah Brody," the older hunter replied.

Patrick's smile seemed to freeze. "Jonah Brody? Aren't you-" he looked past them to the far corner where Dean was sitting. Chris followed his gaze to see Dean glancing up for a brief second, and then dropping his eyes to the machete he was working on. Patrick looked back at Brody, then turned to David. His smile was completely gone now.

"You didn't say anything about _this_ ," he hissed.

"Patrick-" David took a step forward, and Patrick moved away, as if dodging potential touch, even though David didn't reach out to him.

"The fuck's wrong with you, French?" Patrick growled. "What the hell were you thinking bringing the collared one here?"

"He's gonna help on the hunt," David was holding his hands up, in a sort of generic 'calm down' gesture. "That's what he's meant to do."

"Help how? By stabbing us in the back?"

"No, by being expendable," David replied evenly.

"This is fucking insane. This kid is a _murderer_."

"Yeah, and he's been tried and got a chance to pay for it. Justice is gonna be served whether he gets the monster or the monster gets him."

"Like any amount of monster killing's gonna pay for what he did," Patrick scoffed, and looked over at Brody. "Look, Brody, I'm not gonna get into the argument about allowing him to choose the collar in the first place. You took him in, so your stand on this is obvious. I have a different stance."

"You only see black and white here," Brody said. "When you get to be my age and have my experience, you'll realize the hunting life is grey."

"Hunting's not grey to me," Patrick replied, almost defiantly. "It's respectable."

"The vamps' victims didn't die a respectable death. If they get the best of us, it's not gonna be respectable either, just bloody."

Patrick looked at him for a moment longer, and then turned to David. "I don't want any part in this. Sorry, man."

"Come on, Patrick," David took a step forward. "We need you on board."

"You can handle this without me," Patrick replied. "You've handled bigger nests than this."

"We're not sure how big it actually is, and I can't get another hunter on such short notice, certainly not one as good as you."

Patrick shook his head. "I can't. I can't go on a hunt with this… with _him_ and pretend like he's just another hunter and everything's cool. With all the evil we see around us every day, allowing more evil to exist is _wrong_."

"It's not about allowing evil to exist," the slightly-raspy voice startled all of them, and they turned their heads to look at Aurora. She went on with her eyes focused on Patrick. "It's about harnessing it to fight greater evil. This boy isn't a hazard anymore, he's a weapon. As you said, we see a lot of evil around us every day, it'd be foolish not to use every weapon at our disposal to fight it. To drop out on us now, when you know we might be going in outnumbered, disadvantaged, or might call off the hunt altogether – this is letting evil win. Not metaphorically, actually _winning_ in the plainest sense of the word. Joining in on a hunt with the collared one doesn't mean you support him being given the choice of the collar in the first place, it was never something that was put to a vote. What you need to consider now is, if you care more about the vamps' future victims, or the kid's past ones."

There was a long moment of silence as Patrick stared at Aurora, and Aurora stared – almost unblinking – back at him. At last he looked back at the men.

"I'm not staying under the same roof as him," he said.

David seemed immensely relieved. "That's no problem. Jonah, you can get him settled on the porch."

Brody nodded and spoke curtly to Dean. "Get that stuff."

"Yes, sir," Dean hurriedly put the machete and the file into the crate, got up and lifted the box.

"The stool, too," Brody said.

"Yes, sir," Dean had to put the crate down so he could pile the stool on top of the contents, and then carefully picked it up again and followed Brody to the door.

"Wait," Patrick crouched by the duffel bag he left by Chris's, reached inside and stood up again. "You can use these."

Brody looked at the leg cuffs Patrick held out to him and frowned. "I don't need it. He can't go nowhere I don't want him to."

"I don't know about the collar's magic, but I know about these shackles," Patrick replied. "I etched the locking sigils onto them myself, and I know they'll hold him. You wanna have a convicted child-killer ten feet away from you while you take your beauty sleep tonight, that's your problem. I don't."

Brody's eyebrows drew together, and Chris was sure he was going to bark some rude comeback, but the older hunter just took the cuffs from Patrick's hand and proceeded to herd Dean out the door.

As soon as Brody and the collared one were out of sight, David's smile returned. "How about we sit down and dig in? I'm sure everybody's starved."

Patrick smiled back, although his smile lacked his former cheerfulness and charm. "Yeah, that sounds good."

Brody joined them while Aurora cleared her notes off the table and Chris helped David set it with plates from the cupboard. There was no need for utensils with the pizza, nor for glasses, as everybody seemed content to drink their beer straight from the bottle.

Chris slanted a glance at Brody as the man took his seat by the table, wondering if he was going to fix a plate for Dean. But Brody just transferred a slice of pizza from the box to his plate, and started to eat it calmly. Chris was considering whether to ask about it, but David beat him to it.

"You gonna get the kid some dinner?" He asked.

Brody chewed on a mouthful of his slice. "He can get some work done first, and have whatever's left."

It wasn't as if the kid was going to starve to death out there if he had to wait for a little while. Nor was there danger of him not having any food left – even if the five of them consumed all three boxes of pizza, Chris was sure the cabin's pantry was well-stocked and Brody would easily find something else to feed Dean with.

It still felt wrong. Chris grew up on his grandparents' farm until he was old enough to join his hunter parents, and was taught to make sure all the animals were fed before he sat down to have a bite. His granddaddy used to quote the Good Book: 'And I will give grass in your field for your livestock, and you will eat and be sated'. The Lord provides for the animals first, Gramps had told him, and so should we. Dean might have been a murderer, but he was worth at least as much as a cow or a chicken or a guard dog, wasn't he?

But none of the other hunters said anything, and neither did Chris.

They talked about the latest vampire hunts they had been on, as if they were warming up before getting to talk about the current hunt. But they still hadn't gotten to that when there was nothing but crusts on their plates and David was passing around a fresh round of beers.

Brody was leaning back in his chair, already working on the new bottle David handed him, and Chris decided it was a good opportunity to bring up Dean's dinner.

"You want me to take a plate out to the boy?" He asked Brody.

"I'll do it in a bit," the older hunter replied, but he looked far too comfortable to get up.

"It's okay, I can do it," Chris said. He made his voice as casual as possible, as if he really didn’t care one way or the other, but Brody's gaze grew a little inquisitive nonetheless as he eyed Chris over the mouth of the bottle.

"Sure, if you don't mind," he said at last.

Chris gathered two of the leftover pizza slices onto a plate, paused, and added a third. Trying not to look at the others to see if they were looking at him, he went to the fridge to get a can of soda, grabbed a bottle of water while he was at it, and carried everything out to the porch.

David had turned the porch lights on, and beyond the bright circle they cast, the dirt plot that doubled as a front yard and parking lot was lost in shadow. For a moment Chris felt as if he was standing on the shore of an island, facing an ocean of darkness. Then his eyes adjusted, and he could see the faint shapes of the cars and the trees illuminated by the stars.

Glancing to the right, he saw Dean sitting on his stool on the far end of the covered porch. The crate of machetes was turned on its narrow side and placed between Dean's knees to serve as a makeshift workbench.

Dean went on sharpening the machete he had on the crate while Chris walked up to him, although Chris saw the glance the kid stole at him before concentrating on his work again with what looked like extra care. Maybe he didn't want Chris to think he was slacking and rat him out to Brody.

"You can take a break and have dinner," Chris told him as he came to stand in front of the kid. Dean's eyes raised to him, and then drifted to the closest window; it was at an angle that didn't allow Dean to see into the cabin from where he was sitting, but the meaning was clear, and Chris added, "Brody gave permission."

Carefully, as if still not sure he was doing the right thing, Dean put the machete and the file aside to make room for the plate.

"Why don't you turn it over, you'll have a bigger table," Chris said. Dean obliged, and as he moved his legs slightly to accommodate the crate's new position, Chris could hear a faint jingle – probably Patrick's leg irons. He didn't see a chain running between Dean's ankles, and assumed Brody had shackled only one of Dean's legs to the balusters. It made anger rise in his stomach, thinking about this boy being tethered to the porch railing like some kind of animal, but he made himself push the feeling back enough so it wouldn't show on his face as he bent to place the plate and the drinks on the crate.

"It's not hot anymore," he said by way of apology. For some reason, he felt the need to apologize.

"It's fine, sir, thank you," Dean replied.

Chris realized it was the first conversation – well, more of an exchange – he had with Dean, and he wanted to carry on with it, but he didn't know how. It wasn't like they had any reason to be chatting, and the others didn't expect him to linger; he was only supposed to take the food out and come right back in. From the way Dean was sitting without touching the pizza, Chris assumed the kid, too, was expecting him to leave, now that he had fulfilled the chore of delivering his dinner.

"Well, okay then," Chris said, a bit awkwardly, and turned to walk back to the front door. He paused for a brief instance before going in and glimpsed Dean with his head bent over the plate, biting into a slice of pizza. Despite everything, this sight made Chris feel somewhat better.


	2. Chapter 2

The two-car caravan turned off the paved road and onto a dirt trail that ran between unkempt fields. About ten minutes later, David pulled his Ram Charger over by some trees that lined the trail and climbed out, and Patrick parked his Bronco behind him. The other hunters joined David – Brody and Dean from David's car, and Chris and Aurora from Patrick's.

Chris shaded his eyes with his hand and spun on his heel, taking in the view and trying to compare it to the maps they had been going over last night. They were about half a mile from the old farmhouse where the vamps had set up their nest, and were going to finish their last bit of preparation here and continue on foot through the fields.

Aurora and Brody started building the fire. They had brought firewood and old newspapers from the cabin to save them trouble, but had Dean pick up some dry twigs and thin branches to help get the fire going. They didn't want to use any kind of lighter fluid so as to not damage the efficiency of the scent-blocking mixture they were going to prepare.

When the fire was burning nicely, Aurora brought out a drawstring pouch and sprayed its contents into the fire. Within a minute, Chris had to cover his nose. The mixture contained saffron, skunk cabbage and trillium, but the skunk cabbage was definitely the dominant odor, and the stench was overwhelming.

Patrick got a plank of plywood and fanned the fire, directing the smoke to blow to one side, and the rest of them took turns standing inside the smoke to absorb as much of it as they could tolerate. Chris took over the plank to allow Patrick to bathe in the smoke as well, and then Brody gave Dean a light shove.

"Go again," he said.

Even though Chris knew Dean was the one who needed most to have his scent concealed, it was still a little upsetting to see the boy trying not to cough too hard inside the suffocating smoke.

They waited for the fire to die down a little before putting it out all the way. They used blankets and leafy branches, so that the ashes would be as intact as could be for rubbing on their clothes for extra protection. Then they set out toward the vampires' nest.

There was a cluster of oaks about three hundred yards from the farmhouse, and the hunters took cover there and surveyed the property. Nothing seemed to be moving anywhere. The house was old and crumbling, but most of the roof was there, which meant vampires could find comfortable gloom inside. Beside the house stood the remains of a barn that had burned down long ago and would have been of no use to the vamps as a shelter.

David turned to Dean. "Let's go over your part again."

"Yes, sir," Dean replied. "I go in, sweep through the place, find out how many vamps are there and where they're sleeping, and come back to report."

David nodded. "What happens if one wakes and notices you?"

"I try to kill it quietly if I can, run if I can't, sir."

"Right. If you somehow get trapped, and only then, fire this," he held out a flare gun he fished out of one of the duffels they had brought. "Have you used one of these before?"

"Yes, sir. For Wendigos."

"Okay. Here's the flare," he handed it to Dean, watched carefully as the boy loaded it into the gun, and gave him a few extra shells.

Dean shoved them in his pockets. "Sir, what if I'm trapped-"

Brody stepped to Dean's side and grabbed the lapel of his coat, turning the boy to face him. "There's no reason for you to get trapped," he growled. "It's just a scouting mission, in and out. You shouldn't get in any trouble if you do what you're supposed to, so don't fuck it up. You hear me?"

Dean looked like he wanted to tear away from the man, but was too scared to move. "Yes, sir."

Brody let him go, and Dean staggered half a step back. The neckline of his shirt was pulled a bit to the side, and Chris could see for the first time the collar he was wearing – a sleek round cord glinting silver in the sunlight.

They all strapped on the sheathed machetes, aside for Dean, who held his at the ready as he started making his way over the field toward the farmhouse.

He reached the house, but didn't enter; instead, he started circling it, peering in through the windows. He was gone around the corner, and emerged at the other side a few minutes later, climbed up the porch steps and checked the door. It appeared to be unlocked, because Dean tucked the flare gun into the waistband of his pants and slowly pushed the door in. The last Chris could see, Dean was pulling the gun back out and disappearing into the darkness beyond the door.

Now all they could do was wait.

None of them was sitting. Even if they didn't have to be ready to rush out to the farmhouse at any minute, there was no way the nervous energy would have allowed them to relax. Chris felt like a spring, all coiled up and ready to bounce the minute he would be released. He watched the house and the other hunters alternately; none of them were pacing or moving around, they were too experienced for that. But he could catch tiny telltale twitches – Patrick tapping his thumb against his thigh, Aurora pressing her lips together, loosening them, and pressing them again, David running his hand back and forth over the hilt of his machete, Brody chewing on a piece of straw.

Chris glanced at his watch, dropped his arm back at his side, immediately forgot what time he had just read, and raised his hand to look at the watch again. How long has it been since Dean went into the farmhouse? Has it been long enough for him to search the place and find all the vampires? Was the boy being extra careful, moving slowly about, waiting at the door of each room to be sure no vamp was awake and had noticed him?

He looked at the farmhouse again – all quiet – then at the other hunters. He debated if he should say something, and at last moved a step closer to David.

"It's taking too long," he said quietly.

David nodded, his eyes fixed on the farmhouse.

"Should we move in anyway?"

"Could be dangerous," David replied. "Could be a trap, if they already got him."

Chris didn't want to think about Dean being slaughtered by those monsters, all alone in a run-down farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. But out of all of the hunters in their pack, he was the most expendable. That was what wearing the collar meant.

A noise came from the house, startling them. But even though their hands instinctively reached for their weapons, none of them moved just yet. The sound wasn't loud, or at least didn't seem so from where they were standing; it could have been furniture that fell over, or some door slamming.

Except a noise that wasn't loud to them, must have been loud inside the house, and Chris was about to point that out, when a windowpane at the side of the house exploded outward in a spray of glass as some sturdy object was thrown through it, and a moment later a flare shot out the window and sailed across the field.

"Go!" David shouted, and they ran.

As per their plan, only Brody went through the front door. The rest of them surrounded the house, each finding a window or a weak spot in the cracked walls that could allow them to break in. Chris went in through the same window that he saw being shattered, and drew the machete as soon as his feet touched the floor.

And a good thing, too, because a wild-haired woman charged at him, and he swung the weapon in a wide arch, aiming for the neck. She leaped back, but the blade still carved a deep slit in her throat – not enough to separate the head from the body, but enough to daze her a little and allow him to swing at her again. This time the blade went all the way through the neck and her head rolled off her shoulders.

Chris didn't wait for the head to land on the floor. He circled, machete held before him with both hands, and surveyed the scene.

At first sight, it appeared to be total chaos. It was gloomy but not too dark to see, especially after the hunters had burst in, letting dusty shafts of sunlight stream through their points of entry.

Chris stabbed another vampire that stormed in his direction, pushing it back, and watched the creature's head topple off its body when Aurora slashed it from behind. He had time to nod at her before each of them found new monsters to ice.

Skirmishes seemed to be raging everywhere around him. Chris couldn't even estimate how many vampires were there; it must have been the largest nest he had encountered so far. Luckily, a lot of the creatures seemed to have been a bit on the slow side, probably because of the daylight and being woken from their sleep so suddenly. Chris managed to get two more before something slammed into his back and knocked him to the ground.

He fell on his hands and knees, losing the machete, quickly rolled away from whoever attacked him and looked up. The slim, ginger vampire that stood over him was about to pounce, but somebody swept in, and with a kick to the vampire's knee made its leg collapse from underneath it. The next minute, the vamp's head was gone.

Dean held out a hand to Chris and he took it, let the kid help him back to his feet and found his weapon. "Thanks," he breathed out. Dean nodded at him, and turned to find another target.

With six hunters all swinging their machetes with deadly efficiency, the battle was soon over. They made a final search of the house to look for any vampires who might have been hiding, and dragged all the bodies to the middle of the living room. There were fifteen in all, and Chris was glad Patrick had decided to stay – even with him on board it hadn't been easy, without him they might not have been able to do it at all, or at least not without paying dearly for their victory.

They inspected their own damages next. None of them was hurt too badly, but none has escaped unscathed either; most injuries were scratches and bites, and some bruising from being thrown around. David was sporting a limp that he insisted was only a sprain and not a fractured bone. Aurora fashioned a temporary splint from pieces of wood and a blanket she shredded into strips, until she could have a better look at it back at the cabin, she said.

Chris was sitting on a cot one of the vampires probably used for its daytime slumber, as Patrick cleaned up a gash on his temple. All the while he was watching Brody with Dean.

The kid had been sent out to fetch the bags left by the oaks. He had to make two trips, because he couldn't carry both the heavy duffels and the two five-gallon gas cans. Chris carefully monitored the way he moved, trying to catch any sign to indicate his condition. His coat was shredded and he was covered in blood, which Chris hoped was mostly the vamps'. Dean seemed to carry himself fine, so either he wasn't hurt, or he was very good at concealing it.

After lugging in the gear, Dean attended to Brody's wounds at whatever part of his body the hunter pointed him to. Despite his obvious carefulness, Brody still flinched a couple of times and let out a groan, making Dean wince. The second time it happened, the hunter's hand snaked to grab a fistful of the boy's shirt.

"Watch it, or whatever you're gonna be getting, is gonna double," he hissed, and Dean's shoulders hunched a little.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir," his voice was barely above a whisper; had Chris been sitting a little farther away, he wouldn't have been able to make it out at all.

Patrick finished putting Steri-Strips on Chris's temple, and they traded places so Chris could attend to Patrick's injuries. He had some nasty bites, but his heavy denim jacket and pants took most of the damage. The wounds had to be disinfected and bandaged, but Chris had no problem doing that while watching how Brody was taking his turn treating the collared one.

The hunter made Dean strip down to his boxers and go outside to wash the blood off him in a trough that held some rainwater. The kid was shivering when he returned, but now it was easy to see the real wounds – as Chris had hoped, most of the blood was indeed the monsters'. Even though Dean's coat was ruined, he only suffered some cuts and bites that didn't look too deep. The gravest injury was what would become a big, ugly bruise over the right side of his ribcage. From the way he was cringing when Brody checked it, Chris assumed he had probably cracked at least one rib, if not more.

Brody wasn't as gentle as Dean had been with him – hell, he wasn't as gentle as the other hunters were with each other – but he couldn't have been blamed for not being thorough and effective about treating his charge.

When they were done dressing their wounds, the hunters salted the heap of bodies and sprayed the gasoline over them. Patrick was the last one to leave the place, walking backwards through the front door and down the porch steps while pouring a trail of the leftover gas on the ground. When he ran out, he tossed the can aside and produced a book of matches from his pocket.

"So long, blood suckers," he said, lit the matches and dropped them onto the trail. A flame rose where the matches fell and raced over the gasoline line and into the house. A few moments later, a huge fire whooshed into existence inside the old wooden building. The hunters lingered for a while to watch it being consumed by the hungry, crackling blaze. Bit by bit, the roof and walls collapsed with loud crashing sounds. Soon there was going to be nothing left but smoldering ruins.

They drove back to the cabin. David suggested they rest a little before parting ways, and Patrick volunteered to go out and get lunch for everybody. Aurora helped David limp inside and into the bedroom so she could check his leg, and Chris grabbed the crate where they had all put their blood-stained machetes, ready to carry it inside.

Brody was suddenly at his side, putting a hand on the edge of the crate. "Leave it here. The boy'll clean 'em and sharpen the damaged blades. You can go grab a cold one in the meantime."

"I can do it, it's no trouble," Chris replied.

Brody simply took the crate out of his hands. "Go on inside, Easton. I got it covered."

Chris wanted to tell him that the hunt was over, and each hunter could very well take care of their own damned blade. But instead he just nodded, climbed the porch steps and went into the cabin.

He strolled to the kitchen and looked at the refrigerator, but rather than reach to open it and get himself a beer, he wandered over to the window and peeked outside. He expected to see Dean and Brody on the porch, but it was empty. As Chris shifted his gaze, he saw Brody walking over the front yard, probably to the car he had parked on the far side of the plot.

Chris hesitated only for a second. The next moment he was out the door and sneaking along the porch to where bushes and trees growing tall and wild shaded it. He swung onto the railing, steadying himself with one hand on a low-hanging branch, still concealed by the rich foliage. From there he could see through the leaves Brody's Sierra with its white camper shell and the roof rack glistening in the sun, and the two people now standing next to it.

Or rather, he saw Brody pushing Dean into the side of the car hard enough that the air in the boy's lungs deflated with a grunt.

"What did I tell ya before you went in?" Brody growled.

"N-not to f-fuck it up," Dean panted.

Brody pulled him a little away from the car and slapped him, the sound of the hit cracking like a gunshot in the still noon air. "That's right, not to fuck it up. And that's 'sir', to you, boy."

"Yes, sir," Dean sounded like he was barely keeping his voice at an audible level. "I'm sorry, it wasn't my fault, sir, one of 'em was awake-"

Brody pushed him against the Sierra again. "Quit your miserable excuses. You made us lose the element of surprise. If any of us had been killed it would have been your fault!"

"I'm sorry, sir," Dean was standing mostly straight, but Chris had the feeling the kid wanted to curl into a tiny ball.

Brody looked at him for a moment longer before saying, "Take the flannel off. Grab the rack."

Dean's eyes widened. "Please, sir, I'm sorry, please-"

Brody laid a hand flat on Dean's chest, pinning him back against the car. "Take the damned flannel off and grab the damned rack, before I cuff you to it like last time. You want that?"

"N-no, sir," Dean breathed out, tears lacing his voice. When Brody let his hand drop away, Dean turned to face the Sierra and stripped off his flannel – his torn coat had been left behind at the farmhouse. He reached his hands to hold onto the roof rack, and with his head tilted a little, he was watching Brody stride over to the back of the car. "Please don't, sir. Please. Please."

Either Brody didn't hear Dean's whispered begging, or he ignored it while he leaned into the Sierra searching for something. He then slammed the back door shut and came back to Dean's side.

Chris nearly fell off the porch railing when he saw what the man was holding. He tightened his grip on the branch and gawked at the leather flogger in the older hunter's hand. Where the hell did he get it, and why the hell would he even look for one in the first place?!

_Did he have it back then when-_

Dean wasn't talking anymore, but Chris could see the way his body moved with fast, frightened breaths. Chris's first instinct was to leap off the porch, tear through the bushes, and stop Brody from what he was about to do. Save Dean, protect him.

Except he wouldn't save Dean, and any protection he could give the boy would only be temporary. Because it was a sponsor's privilege to discipline the collared one. Their _duty_. If Brody was denied that right now, Chris had no doubt he would exercise it later, with vengeance. As much as it made Chris sick to his stomach, he had to stay out of this. But he couldn't take his eyes off the scene, even though – and maybe because – he knew it would pain him to watch.

Brody took position behind the boy, reared his arm back and landed the flogger's tails on Dean's back. Dean winced sharply, molding his body onto the side of the car as Brody raised the flogger and brought it down again and again. Dean turned his head, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. Even though he was still wearing a shirt, Dean felt every lash, if the way he was cringing was any indication. Choked cries escaped him, each sending a pang through Chris's chest.

Chris's hand tightened on the branch so hard that he couldn't feel his fingers anymore. His other hand curled into a fist, the nails digging into his palm. But he stayed still, and he watched.

Brody worked the flogger with even strokes, moving from Dean's shoulders and down his back all the way to his thighs, and then starting over. He looked as focused as a man completing a chore – maybe cutting down a tree. Dean's flinches and sobs didn't appear to register with the hunter; the flogger rose and fell with the same accuracy and persistence.

The sound of the flogger – swishing through the air and then slapping onto Dean's body – seemed to be loud enough to be heard even inside the cabin, but nobody came out of it to investigate. They were alone out here, under vast, empty sky.

Brody let the hand holding the flogger fall to his side and stepped back, eyeing Dean. The kid was shaking, his breaths coming out in soft, pained whimpers.

"Get your ass back to the porch," Brody said. He walked toward the back of the car, probably to replace the flogger.

Chris watched Dean peel himself away from the car, his face scrunching up with pain. In the bright sunlight, Chris could see tears sliding down his cheeks. Dean pulled on his flannel with slow, careful movements, pausing at one point, probably when the pain was flaring.

By the time Brody was back at his side, Dean was dressed again. He slanted a glance at his sponsor, then turned to walk toward the cabin. Chris scrambled off the railing, along the porch and back into the cabin, where he snatched a bottle of beer from the fridge and flopped down on a kitchen chair. When Brody opened the door, a third of the beer in his bottle was already gone.

Brody glimpsed at him but said nothing, and moved on to the kitchen cabinets. He found a large bowl, filled it with water, then got some rags and draped them on his arm as he carried everything out to the porch. He was back a short while later and made his way to the main room. There he stretched himself on a couch with the air of a man finally claiming a much-deserved rest, and closed his eyes.

Chris waited a few minutes more, got up and opened the fridge. He remembered he saw a bottle of Gatorade among the sodas, and now he fished it out. With a last glance at Brody, Chris went out of the cabin and closed the door softly behind him.

Dean was sitting on the stool in the same spot as last night. He was chained to the baluster again – Chris caught a twinkle of metal as he drew near. The kid had the water bowl between his feet, and was washing the blood off a machete with a wet rag. He looked up at Chris. His eyes seemed red, his eyelashes damp.

"Do you need your machete cleaned first, sir?" He said. "I'll get it done if you tell me which one's yours."

Chris shook his head. "No, it's fine, take your time." He held the Gatorade out. "Got you somethin' to drink."

The same as when Chris had brought him dinner yesterday, Dean's eyes turned to the window. Chris tried not to let any anger into his voice when he added, "Brody's taking a nap, but I know he wouldn't want you dehydrating out here. You wouldn't be any good to him sick. You can just toss the bottle behind the porch when you're done."

Dean stared at him for a moment longer, then reached his hand out and gingerly took the offered bottle. As he uncapped it and took a long sip, Chris settled with his back against the cabin wall.

"My brother was collared twenty-two years ago," he said. "Jonah Brody was one of his sponsors."

Dean's eyes flew open and his mouth gaped. Chris didn't know if he was deliberating whether to ask for details, but he didn't wait for questions.

"I was nineteen, Teddy was twenty-five. He murdered his wife. They had been married for barely a year and crazy in love. At the trial he said he didn't know how an insignificant argument escalated so suddenly, even though we all knew him to be short-tempered. For a long time, I wanted to believe he had been possessed, or that there was some other explanation, supernatural or not. But there wasn't. He was guilty, same as you. And same as you, they gave him a choice, execution or the collar."

Chris looked away from Dean, at the trees framed by the clear blue of the sky.

"I didn't go to the trial, my parents didn't want me there. I didn't get to see him or say goodbye before he was handed off to the first sponsor. I was mad and ashamed that my brother had committed such a hideous crime, but he was still my big brother and I loved him." He had to stop to inhale and cool the sting in his chest.

"My folks kept track of where he was and with whom. They always shut me up if I tried to ask about Teddy, but I was on the road hunting with them, so it wasn't like I couldn't hear them talking. Brody wasn't Teddy's first sponsor, but he had him for three months. I guess his… experience… made him confident enough now to become the first one sponsoring you."

He glanced down at Dean to see the boy's green eyes glued to him, the machete as well as the Gatorade completely forgotten.

"I saw Teddy only once more, about two years after he had been collared, at Harvelle's Roadhouse. As soon as my parents realized Teddy's current sponsor was there, they turned to leave. But before they drove away, I saw him, outside by the building, watching us. He had lost weight, and his face was… haunted, like he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in weeks. Or months. He barely looked like the Teddy I used to know."

Chris's voice choked in his throat before he finished the sentence. He coughed slightly and rubbed a hand down his face.

"What… what happened to Teddy?" Dean whispered. Chris closed his eyes, took a breath to clear his head, and looked back at Dean. From the boy’s expression he could tell Dean already knew the answer.

"He was killed on a hunt four years into being collared. A case of demon possession, was what we were told. We drove out to retrieve his body. My folks didn't want me to come, but they couldn't have stopped me if they tried. We gave him a hunter's funeral and buried his remains on the family farm."

"I'm sorry," Dean said quietly as Chris fell silent. Chris nodded and turned so he was fully facing the boy.

"You could've chosen death and you didn't. So I gather you wanted to take your chances with this- I wish I could call it 'life', but I saw the look in Teddy's eyes that day by the Roadhouse, and I can't. It's survival, that's all it is. You need to understand that. Brody, he's not a cruel man. He's not even overly mean, compared to others. Whatever you've been through with him so far – that's just a light rain. The real winter hasn't started yet. But if you learn as much as you can now, in the drizzle, maybe you'll have a fighting chance when the storm comes. If you manage to survive the storm, then maybe…" he stared intently at the kid, feeling like his eyes were burrowing into Dean's. "Whatever reason that led you to choose the collar, maybe you'll live long enough to justify it."

They stayed like this for a moment, gazes locked together. Chris's heart was beating so fiercely in his chest, he felt like his body was trembling. Even though the day was bright, Chris's vision made everything seem a little dim, colorless. Everything but Dean. For a few seconds, the boy was all but _glowing_ with some internal source of light, something deep and old and pure. Then the world shifted back into focus.

Chris blinked, seeing the collared one as he was – a young, thin boy shackled to a porch railing, dressed in worn clothes, with lines of agony on his pale face. But in his eyes Chris didn't see the look he had seen in Teddy's, not yet.

But somehow, Chris wasn't so sure anymore that look _would_ be there, in another month or another year. The traces of the glow he saw before seemed to linger. It was probably only his imagination, but Chris wasn't so sure about that, either.

He walked back into the cabin. Brody was still sprawled over the couch, snoring softly. Aurora was on the other couch with her eyes closed, for once resembling in a way her namesake fairytale princess. Chris went quietly into the kitchen and opened the fridge, but hesitated before reaching for the beer. Instead, he went through the cupboards and recovered a half-full, dusty bottle of Jack Daniels, poured himself some and sat at the kitchen table facing the window.

With his elbow leaning on the table, he raised the glass to eye level and let the light shine through the amber liquid. "Here's to you, Teddy," he said quietly. "I hope you're done paying for everything and you're resting in peace. I miss you, man."

He took a sip and then tipped the tumbler toward the wall behind which the collared one sat on the porch. "Good luck, Dean," he said, even more quietly, and knocked his drink back.

**Author's Note:**

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